A dark, damp corridor stretched ahead, lit only by flickering firelights. Shadows slid along the stone as the flas wavered. The man dressed in white luxurious attire moved on without hurry until he finally ca to a stop where the corridor seed to end.
If one spoke in the language of magic, it was the deepest point of the structure. Strip away that language, and the structure beca either just a tower, simple and plain, or sothing so complex it turned completely nonsensical.
Where the man stopped, there was neither a door nor a dead end before him, but a small square opening that unfolded into a space slightly larger than the corridor’s dinsions. tal bars sealed the entrance, their surfaces faintly glowing with runic symbols. Beyond them was just... a man, seated at the center of the chamber in an otherwise plain high-backed chair.
The flas at the corners of the room cast his face into darkness, erasing every detail but his eyes. They shone faintly, cold, watching the intruder before him as if he were observing sothing beneath his concern.
To an untrained eye, he might have looked seated at ease. The newcor, however, knew he was not resting at all, but imprisoned.
The man was held upright by complex magic, his body locked in a rigid, unnatural stillness. He did not lean into the chair, nor did he alter his stance in the slightest. Or rather, he could not, even if he wanted to.
His arms were positioned precisely along the rests by invisible forces. It was as if the chair dictated his posture, forcing him into perfect alignnt, absolutely.
Dark fabric as black as night wrapped tightly around his entire form, binding him from neck to toe, leaving only his face exposed. Whatever held him was precise and powerful, and judging by the damp, untouched walls and the spiderwebs clinging everywhere made it clear that nothing here had changed in a very, very long ti.
And yet, the seemingly imprisoned man remained disturbingly calm.
The tip of the cigar glowed as the intruder drew in a slow breath, his eyes never leaving the man behind the bars. Smoke filled his lungs, then spilled out again in a quiet exhale that sounded almost like a sigh.
"Ti has not been kind to you, Comrade Grindelwald."
The man in the chair, now identified as Grindelwald, did not respond. Not at first. His body remained perfectly still, eyes fixed on the speaker with the sa distant indifference as before. Then, after a brief pause, his half-lidded gaze sharpened, a faint crease forming between his brows, as if a thought had finally caught his attention.
"Interesting," he said at last, his voice steady and emotionless. "That they chose you as the new keeper of secrets." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Has my old friend Anton passed on?"
The intruder tilted his head, listening, while Grindelwald continued calmly, as though thinking aloud. "That cannot be right... my friend should still have centuries left in his rather mundane life. Or had I miss sothing?"
"Friend?" The intruder’s thick Russian accent curled around the word. "You English have very strange standards when it cos to friendship."
Grindelwald’s gaze hardened. "Did you kill him?"
The intruder chuckled softly, shrugging. "Let’s say he is not enjoying those centuries you spoke of. Unfortunately."
For a brief instant, Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, then the tension faded just as quickly, his expression settling back into calm neutrality.
"I see," he murmured. "Then may he rest in peace. We disagreed on many things, but I respected what little character he possessed."
The intruder laughed, a low sound that echoed faintly through the chamber.
"Your arrogance," he said, shaking his head, "has atleast survived remarkably well."
"What brings you here, Volkov?" Grindelwald asked at last, giving no sign that the last remark had registered at all.
In fact, neither of them were answering the other directly. Their words crossed without eting, a dialogue layered with aning only they seed to understand.
Volkov removed the cigar from his lips and smiled broadly, teeth flashing in the torchlight. "Why? To set you free, of course."
"Free ?" There was still no reaction in Grindelwald’s face. "Not the least bit interested."
Volkov burst into laughter as though he had been expecting that exact response. "Oh, that’s right..." he said, wiping a trace of amusent from his eyes. "You have retired. All those grand visions you once preached to your followers..."
He paused as a chair materialized behind him. He sat down slowly.
"Gone. Reduced to nothing by one terrifying man nad Albus Dumbledore."
Smoke escaped his mouth as he leaned back, arms folding across his chest. Grindelwald still remained unmoved, silent as stone.
Volkov sighed, the humor finally fading from his face.
"Very well," he said. "Let us speak properly from now on, Mister Grindelwald."
He lifted the cigar between two fingers, gesturing lightly as he spoke.
"I did co here to free you, comrade. Believe it or not. That is, if we can reach a cooperative agreent." His eyes glead. "And to see if your ambition has finally died, or if it is only sleeping in the cold."
For a mont, there was nothing but silence, until the low rumble of distant thunder drifted in through the stone.
"You," Grindelwald said at last, a hint of mockery in his tone as he raised a brow at the man opposite him. "...who chose to hide like a mouse back then, believe you understand my ambitions?"
Volkov’s smile also did not fade. "Is it so difficult?" he replied. "You sought to separate insects from gods. And while many of us did not raise your banner back then, we shared the sa understanding."
A faint smile touched the corner of Grindelwald’s lips. "Then," he said softly, disdain clear in his tone, "was it fear of those very insects that kept you all hidden?"
Volkov sighed, almost indulgently. He brought the cigar to his lips, drew in a slow breath, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke as he rubbed his chin.
"Circumstances were... complicated, comrade," he said. "On one side, you had Albus Dumbledore opposing you openly, and you must admit, you moved too quickly." A quiet chuckle followed.
"Too hasty. You forced the world to react before it was ready."
Grindelwald’s gaze sharpened.
"If you do not mind indulging my curiosity," Volkov continued, amused, "how did it feel back then? To know so completely that you were right, and yet to fail regardless?"
Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed even further, while the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.
Volkov laughed aloud, as though he sensed nothing at all. "Ah, those are very dangerous-looking eyes, comrade. But I told you, I ca here offering friendship."
At his words, the subtle reactions that had surfaced on Grindelwald’s face vanished, settling back into cold stone again. "How did you learn Anton Vogel was the Secret Keeper?"
Volkov blinked once, then smiled. "People talk, comrade. Especially with ti." He leaned slightly forward. "In fact, I heard it from soone rather close to you. That Rosier girl."
"Unfortunately," Volkov continued, "she ran into a rather troubleso foe not long ago." He clicked his tongue softly. "Her situation now is... not so good."
"Vinda," Grindelwald murmured, a cold gleam flickering behind his eyes as he recalled sothing. "She was promised a pardon in exchange for her cooperation, was she not?"
Volkov shrugged. "As I said, comrade, much has changed since you checked into this grand sanctuary. Powerful mages are appearing everywhere these days. Even the world of those ilk would feel unrecognizable to you now, I suspect."
He tilted his head, continuing. "Does your devoted friend never visit? Share news of the world?"
At last, sothing stirred in Grindelwald’s gaze at the ntion of this friend. "I have had no visitors in the past five years," he said quietly.
Volkov’s smile widened. "Then we have much to discuss..."
"Then I shall indulge your humor," Grindelwald replied. Whether it was boredom born of long imprisonnt or sothing else stirring within him, he decided to hear the man out, at least.
"...Ti has a habit of vindicating ideas once ridiculed. Even those who mocked your prophecies now..."
Volkov spoke at length after that. What passed between them was known to no one but the two of them. Whether an agreent was forged or rely seeds were planted was sothing only they would ever know.
Their eting, two mages standing at the peak of modern magical power, passed without witness.
When Mikhail Volkov finally left the towering structure the world knew as Nurngard, Grindelwald still remained behind, still bound, still imprisoned.
Only his eyes had changed. Where they had once been hollow, they now held a faint gleam, as if purpose had quietly returned to claim them.
---
At the sa ti, far away in Scotland, within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as music thundered through the Great Hall and heavy beats drove the crowd into motion, Mavrick, who had stepped off the floor with his fiancée for a drink, suddenly let out an inexplicable sneeze.
"Oh, has the winter weather finally caught up with you, Ricky?" Isabella called out. The music was pounding, the beats so loud they could barely hear each other even standing close.
"Impossible," Mavrick replied at once, shaking his head. A dignified archmage falling ill, and to sothing as mundane as a common cold of all things, was simply unthinkable.
Must be soone talking behind my back, he thought. Wait... is that even a thing?
Instinctively, his gaze drifted toward Dumbledore, standing a little farther away beside McGonagall, the two of them also apparently taking a brief reprieve from the dancing. And in that exact mont, the old wizard let out a sharp sneeze too.
Mavrick’s brow twitched, and he brushed that earlier thought aside. I must be overthinking it, he told himself, giving a small nod as if to settle the matter.
"I’m just kidding. Why so serious all of a sudden?" Isabella’s soft chuckle and raised voice pulled him back into the mont.
"Oh, look, there’s more coming," she added, gesturing to the side where two witches were shyly making their way toward them, and she smiled knowingly at him. "That makes it the seventeenth girl you’re dancing with tonight."
"Do you really need to keep count?" Mavrick let out a sigh. "It’s your fault, you know. You’re the one who told to humor their requests."
—————————
Author’s Note:
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